LP Review: Graham Central Station and Joe Maize


Joe Maize and the Cordsmen with autographed photo from 1958

Yes, the Mambo No. 5  as an instrumental based on the 1950 original by Dámaso Pérez Prado. A Misirlou version was also on this album. This was apparently a demo album on Decca Records cut in 1958.

Joe Maize née Joseph A. Mazzola was from New Jersey. He died in Reno in 1988. He apparently played Vegas for years. His family remembered him quite warmly, per some articles I saw online.

I watched a YouTube video of their appearance on the Patty Page show. They were wacky and energetic with String bass, electric ⚡️ keyboard ⌨️ , violin 🎻 and accordion.

The trio played at a club in Pittsburgh called ‘Ankara’ on April 30, 1956. I could work that into one of my stories. Imagine the healthy delicious 😋 hearty wholesome radioactive nicotine and reefersticks being roaked in that shitty dive by dames and gents.

I’m not sure how to describe them. Instrumental music 🎶 with some Spanish lyrics in the background. Some accordion and violin 🎻. Some weird faux-Hawaiian music. OK 👌 I have no idea 💡 what kind of music this was, but apparently it was popular in the late 1950’s.

I found the photo inside the album jacket. It’s OK to listen to while working out. Maybe they were the 1950’s version of the 1989’s Neue Deutsche Welle 🌊 band ‘Trio’.

NOTE: If anyone from any of the families of the band members sees this article, post a comment here and I will send you the album and the signed photograph.

The other album was Graham Central Station, Warner Brothers, 1974 which was headed by Larry Graham, late of Sly and the Family Stone. Classic 70’s funk. Starts out well with great funky beats, then it slows down a bit.

Albums by the 1970’s became cohesive compositions rather then just compilations of hits, so you could have songs written merely to compliment the other tunes in the album.

Oh, I had forgotten. LP’s skip, skip, skip, so you have to gently smack the record player.

Peace be the Botendaddy

Posted in Critic's Corner, Music | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Can Big Data Catch the Mad Pooper?

We were running down by the river today. The morning mist had lifted, but it was till cool. Lots of normal people were on the trail with dogs and children. The light glimmered in golden streaks on the river.

My knee was in savage pain. I had it in a tight brace.

“Its relatively simple.”

Said the Librarian as we paced down the trail.

“Scrape publicly posted race results from 5k’s and 10k’s from January to August 2013 in Albuquerque and compare them to race results from Colorado Springs from January to September 2017. Any female name that matches both cities is a likely suspect. You can rule out girls who are too young and women too old to match the photo.”

The Librarian was putting figures into her cell phone 📱 calculator.

“We know she’s a creature of habit. Both the Albuquerque shitter and the Colorado Springs shitter shit repeatedly in the same place. It’s almost like a biorhythm. They are similar in build and they dress 👗 like 🏃‍♀️ runners. However the Albuquerque shitter never wipes her shit-covered anus. Age anywhere from maybe 28 to 35. Colorado Springs shitter could be ages 32-56.”

I stated.

”It’s hard to tell her age but she is very lean. She wears runners’ 🏃 clothes and shoes 👞. I think 🤔 she’s between 28-44. So we get all females between roughly 28-56 from all 2013 Albuquerque and 2017 Colorado Springs distance races and isolate the matches. Then we check the names against known professional databases like QuinkenIn. Anyone who lived in or near both Albuquerque in 2013 or Colorado Springs in 2017 is our girl. Quod 💷 Erat Demonstratum.”

I explained/brilliantly/explained (no one ☝️ knows that shitty, meaningless, phony rule of grammar).

”I say we do an experiment. I am dressed 👗 like the mad 😠 💩 pooper 🚽. Except I am wearing a massive adult diaper. Then when we reach a likely pooping area, I will make a massive, copious, thick, brownuous, reeking bowel movement in my ginormous adult diaper.”

Said the near-psychotic Librarian.

We could hear the megaphone shouts of the various Coxswains down on the river as their boats went back and forth under the bridges to the Island. I was mad that I couldn’t run faster despite having tons of extra lung strength. How could I run Hell on Hills next week on one knee?

First mile very slow about 10:30. I was basically running on one leg. By the Second mile, the Librarians rotting diaper was fumigating the entire Island with pure brownuous Bowel Genie. Deer and raccoons were gagging and falling out on the trail. Birds dropped from the sky.

The Fineview step challenge had destroyed my left knee joint. I desperately needed to get about 40 miles out of it by December 31st, but it wasn’t looking good. Third mile on the little bridge was a gruesome 34 something. We didn’t even break 36 for the 5k time… 36:02. Most people couldn’t walk on this but I had to run.

We ran past the crew people carrying their red boats into the boathouse. I was hoping they couldn’t taste the Librarian’s horrific stench.

“I got two venison sandwiches at Arby’s©®™. I have another one in my car, but I’m not letting you into my car until you change that rancid bowel-movement filled diaper.”

I stated idly as I staggered to a halt on the gray fine gravel trail.

“I no longer care. I already urinate copious amounts of tasty yeasty urine every single time I run, I just upgraded to a more massive diaper so I could be more like you. Your diaper is like your literary criticism: it stinks and it is filled with rotting bacteria.”

She went into the shitty outhouse with her designer adult diaper bag. While she was in there I began to download the race results from Albuquerque and Colorado Springs. Would I find a match? Would I catch the Mad Pooper?”

The Librarian emerged from the shit-covered outhouse. She was magnificent in her spandex silhouetted against the golden reflections of the beautiful river.

“You smell like shit, let’s get you cleaned up on my houseboat/river-yacht.”

I advised, as we walked over to the docks. We walked down the hidden steps in the thick weeds by the water’s edge.

“Your river yacht is enormous. Let’s get a shower and f&%$, yon Botendaddy. Have you got Wifi?”

“Espresso with foam?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

Posted in Critic's Corner, Exercise, Running | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Writers: I hate you for making me read your sockdologizing books

I stood majestically before the Writer’s Workshop.

The entire crew of shitty writers was (not a typo) there. We had been kicked off campus and now we met in the Novi Korova Milk Bar.

Me little droogies were having a malankey bit of the Mollokko plus aka Latté.

“Listen, the worst part of being a critic is being homosexually assaulted in the fifth anal chakra of the mind as I’m forced to read your excruciatingly complex stultifying prose. I mean did you even read your own shit? Do you use quill and bowel movement on shit-paper parchment? Do you hate your readers that much? I like to read for fun, for joy, for mystery and instead you drag me through some tortuous recitation of some uncomfortable 😣 family traumas and awkward disturbing sexual experiences. My god, at least I make it fun and interesting for Khufu’s sake. I mean if two or more people are going to fuck at least enjoy 😉 yourselves why write about something fun and make it horrible? Do we have to explore every intimate detail of your family tree’s horrors and failures. I READ TO ESCAPE, NOT TO BE IMPRISONED! YOU SHIT-COVERED NINCOMPOOPS! Lighten up for f@&$s sake! You’re killing me with your tortured prose and writing from your tormented souls.”

I Shrieked, in between sips of del.ic.io.us mocha.


”Acting!” Yelled Revolutionary Blacquez.

”Dramatic 📖 reading! 🎭 Shouted the Stalker 👀.

”F@&$ You! And go Bombers!” Hurled the Punker Model Writer Chick 🐥.

”I love it 😍 when you taunt us. It’s so 😋 tasty!” Ejaculated Ramôn.

No, he actually ejaculated, which why you never sit in the front row at the Writer’s Workshop.

“This is the worst group of people I’ve ever seen.” Said the Librarian. “(I love you 😍 I love you 😘 I love ❤️ you, Botendaddy)” she muttered under her breath.

”No-one cares what you think 🤔 about our writing, you stupid-ass, geriatric, shit-covered, piss-soaked, tasty 😋 yummy 😋 Botendaddy. Your reviews are unorthodox, uninspired and lazy at best. You follow none of the rules of modern literary criticism. IT’S NOT 1840, YOU F&$KTARD! No one cares! Only I truly love you!”

Screamed the NCL.

”Look, I read Chief Guyasuta’s novel. It was the 🌈 gayest (is that a word?) Book I’ve ever read. I felt dirty after I read it. It was a period piece about muscular trappers and explorers in the 1700’s who encountered and all male all gay 🌈 Indian tribe… I can’t… go… on…”

I said.

”Bitch, everyone’s a critic.” Sneered Chief Guyasuta.

”And the CEO 👨‍💼 ‘s high stakes business novel about rival businesswomen pitting Wheeling vs. Steubenville trying to get the Hamazon contract to corner the bacon 🥓 and pork 🐖 market in the West Virginia panhandle and Eastern Ohio as tragic  skeletons of abandoned milltowns give up their remaining dignity to grovel in front of neo-corporate robber barons. The two rival female CEO 👨‍💼 s f&$k every hot young male Hamazon negotiator in a variety of sex acts so foul that Caligula would blush.”

I mentioned.

”I like how the shameless, gratuitous perverted sex acts of the 50-something female CEOs with the hot young men of Hamazon is metaphor for the once dignified mill towns giving up their dignity to get the big contract. It was so neatoboppy!”

Added Hiroyuki

“Did you happen to have to be liking my book 📖 Yon Botendaddy?”

Asked the Weird Foreign Doctor 🐥 Chick.

”It looked vaguely familiar. Himalayan mountain beautiful princess  🇳🇵 meets tall, sexy, older, grizzled American explorer in the 1930’s and has a tragic native girl and Colonial western man hopeless 😩 romance 🌹 ring to it.”

I said.

”I liked the part when she asks him to marry her and then they go climbing on FaikPhoni Mountain and at Base Camp ⛺️ Zulu she has to choose between saving her Sherpa little brother and the grizzled American, so she cuts the rope and one of them goes plummeting one billion meters (no feet!) To his death 💀.”

Said the Park Ranger.

”I like the part where he f@&$s her in every imaginable orifice and totally defiles her as she begs for more American manhood… Aah the taste of it! Grizzled Old American man flesh! Oh you old white devil! Equinsu Ocha! Take me now O’ ancient wise Botendaddy damn you! 😍 I love you! There I said it! So sue me! Mock me you Yankee demons!”

Yelled the Caribbean Queen.

”Cold Brew with nitrogen?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

Posted in Critic's Corner, People | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Baseball will regain its title as America’s Pastime if the Yankees play the Dodgers in the World Series

America is really starting to hate the NFL.

I won’t explain why as my readers HATE politics.


Classic Urban Street Scene Somewhere in America

But the powers that be in baseball ⚾️ (pronounced beisbôl or bay-ees-bôl) want Yankees vs. Dodgers. East Coast vs. West Coast New York vs. LA. The 1940’s and 50’s great rivalry. Reggie vs. the Dodgers. Don Larsen’s perfect game. The 55 Dodgers and Jackie Robinson. The Babe, Gehrig, Mantle, Koufax.

(My apologies to my non-Latin American, non-Japanese/Korean/Taiwanese, non-Carribbean, non-Canadian readers as you have no idea what I’m talking about.)

I was born in Cooperstown. My mother and grandmother 👵 and grandfather 👴 were from the Bronx. Baseball Hall of Fame… Cooperstown  ⚾️ ? Nothing? You still don’t understand? Sorry, Tychy, I don’t know 🤷‍♀️ anything about soccer ⚽️.

They even hate the NFL 🏈 in Green Bay, Pittsburgh and Dallas.


Classic urban nightscape Somewhere in America

So baseball steps in. Yankees vs. Dodgers. America’s game. Not just the United States of America 🇺🇸 but Puerto Rico 🇵🇷 Mexico 🇲🇽 Canada 🇨🇦 Venezuela 🇻🇪 Panama 🇵🇦 Dominican Republic 🇩🇴… I could go on… In other words the Americas…

Baseball ⚾️ wins football 🏈 loses.

So to will the Yankees inevitably win. Because ____ the Dodgers!

Peace be the Botendaddy


Posted in Critic's Corner, Exercise, Fashion, People | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Fake Hashtags

3C0FF7D2-9789-44A4-917C-EEFD2A9305F7Hashtags that never existed:




















































Posted in Critic's Corner, People, Technology | Tagged | Leave a comment

Jim Croce’s Greatest Hits and It’s Hard by The Who


I listen to LP’s while I work out 🏋️. I stack two or three and just let them play.

I forgot one ☝️ rule of Albums: there are several boring ‘concept’ songs or ‘C’ songs that didn’t even make it onto the 45.

The Croce Album had his three greatest hits: Operator, Leroy Brown and his breakout hit ‘You don’t mess around with Jim.’ Lots of slow kind of café ☕️ songs as well. Sadly, those were quite dull.

The Who Album started with ‘Athena’, their last great song. Lots of bizarre Townsend concept songs the best of which is ´Eminence Front’ which as we all know is a put on, it’s a put on! But no matter how bad a Who song is, if you play it loud, it’s better.

All if you who are under the age of say 35, listen up. Go buy a turntable. Get speakers 🔊 with some bass. Go buy a few random LP’s at your local music 🎶 exchange store. You know the one with all the hipster, Millenial, Seattle-ish Trainspotter Sk8te kids who look 👀 like Tychy.

Stack the LP’s and do something while the record (pronounced wreck-hoards) spin in the background.

The LP has a mystical, authentic, rhythmic, scratchy quality to it. It has the beauty of mechanical imperfection instead of soulless Shit-covered ‘downloads’.

Get rid of your goddamned phone and get a record player! I command thee O Yon readers! Peace be the Botendaddy

Posted in Critic's Corner, People, Technology | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

We aren’t quite the good people we think ourselves to be

In our mind’s eye, we are all wonderful, good people. We look down on those who have morally failed. We figure if we have never murdered, raped, robbed, assaulted then we are OK.

When I first arrived at my Unit at Ft. Hood, Texas, I was not greeted warmly.

The whole situation was uncomfortable.

There is an unwritten rule of camaraderie among officers in the U.S. Army.


They all knew I was an outsider, but no-one ever invited me to lunch or to dinner. My wife, Annabel Lee and the Boten-Daughter lived a thousand miles away and even my losing unit (unit from which I was detached) was at Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas.

It was an isolated existence. I stayed in hotels because the BOQ’s were all filled with wounded warriors, so there was no room on post.

First I stayed in a shitty hotel in Killeen where homeless psychos would knock on my door begging at 4:00 AM. Then another hotel in Killeen, then finally a hotel in Temple, Texas.

I knew nobody. I would travel around Texas to run in 5k’s and 10k’s on weekends, but other than that, I had no connections and absolutely no hospitality from my peers.

To be fair, I did once wear a T-Shirt from a Ft. Belvoir unnamed agency that caused my peers to think I was some sort of mole for some Investigative Agency. I categorically deny that I was any sort of Intel spook.

Only one Officer befriended me (I’m not including Warrants or NCO’s as that’s a different element). He came from a unit that had been part of the Division with whom I had gone to Bosnia, so we could talk about Ft. Riley and Ft. Leavenworth and the great Santa Fe Division.

He invited me to this rib joint, authentic African-American rib joint out on the Centex. I don’t think it’s still there.

In the end, when I was rather isolated for some three and a half months, I felt like I had only one friend.

I was out of the Army as of April, 2011. I kept track of events in the 1st Cavalry Division from afar. My old Brigade folded its flag and mothballed its existence a year or two ago.

Last year, I noticed my friend’s name in the 1st Cavalry Association Newsletter, under Active Duty Taps.

I checked the Killeen News for word of his death. He apparently shot himself in the head.

I remember telling him when we were at the rib joint that he was the only officer in the Brigade to have shown me any hospitality at all.

I hadn’t seen him in 7 years, since I got on a C-130 out of Iraq to go back to a Reserve Battalion Command in New York City. We didn’t stay in touch. I hadn’t seen him much in Iraq as I traveled around to the different Squadrons and to Baghdad.

I wonder now if maybe he needed a friend like I did back in Killeen years ago.

The Eternal question was answered to me: If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no-one there to hear it, does it make a sound?

The Answer: It does make a sound, but there’s no-one there to hear it.

RIP my friend

Peace be the Botendaddy

Posted in Critic's Corner, People | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment